Free Them Bones by Carolyn Haines Page B

home, the newspaper wanted to know if you're planning on having a fete here at Knob Hill?"
    It was weak, but it was better than nothing. And Cece would stand behind me if I offered her some tidbit of gossip.
    Hamilton 's left eyebrow lifted. "Knob Hill has been closed for nineteen years. Why would you think we'd have a party this holiday?"
    "My thought was it wouldn't hurt to ask." I smiled and wished that I'd had a little more experience playing weak and helpless. He would have recognized that as a lie, too, but he would have been honor bound to respond to it. That was assuming that a potential murderer was still adhering to the Code of the South.
    "Delaney," he mused, never taking his gaze off me. "I know who you are."
    "Of course you do," I said. "I remember the 1979 Christmas parade when you drove Queen Treena in your daddy's white Caddy convertible." Now this was firmer ground. We were trading pedigrees. The crisis was over, though my body still trembled at the thought of his touch.
    "My last Christmas inSunflower County ," he said, and there was a coldness in his voice that made me wish I'd picked another memory.Hamilton stepped back from me. "There will be no parties at Knob Hill. Please don't bother us again."
    "Are you home for good?"
    His features hardened. "My comings and goings are no one's business. Particularly not a newspaper gossip columnist. Take my advice: Stay off my property, or the consequences will be dire." He stepped back and away and reentered the house. The door slammed with a good, solid thunk.
    Walking back to the car, I was aware that my shoulder throbbed. Once the car door was locked, I stretched the neck of my blouse down and saw the clear marks of his fingers. The bruises would be colorful.
    Cruising down the gracious curve of the drive, I kept glancing in the rearview mirror. Knob Hill stood like a mammoth black fortress against the silvery night sky. Even as I stared at it, a single light blinked on in a third-floor window. I found my teeth chattering and I turned on the car heater. The falling night had stolen the day's warmth.
    And Hamilton Garrett had stolen mine. My fingers were icy as I gripped the wheel and turned right toward Bunker. I still intended to find the people who'd once worked for the Garretts.
    I shared one thing with Harold Erkwell--a grim determination that only grew stronger with resistance. Now I was vested in the truth of what had happened nearly two decades ago. Hamilton Garrett had touched my life and left his mark--embedded in my flesh.
    Bunker was a four-way stop that featured a gas station/ convenience store, a video rental that sold livestock feed, and cotton fields that seemed to stretch forever. The store was open and the owner told me Amos Henry, the Knob Hill groundskeeper, lived on a small farm two miles to the west.
    As I cruised toward theMississippi River , I found myself replaying the images of Hamilton, the dark master of Knob Hill. He was a man a woman wouldn't forget, and I understood Tinkie's fascination with him. But he was also a hard man, one who demanded satisfaction. I hoped, for Claire's sake, that he was not her father.
    At the juncture of county road 33, I saw my turnoff. The Henry farm, from what I could see by the car's headlights, was neat as a pin. The small farmhouse had a welcome glow, and I found myself eager to step into the warmth the house promised.
    My knock was answered by a woman who could have been fifty or seventy. "Can I help you?" she asked.
    I identified myself, honestly this time, and explained that I was looking for information on the Garrett family. She didn't ask why I wanted the facts, and I didn't tell her.
    "You'll need to talk to Amos," she said, pushing the screen door open for me to enter.
    The house was warm and filled with the smell of good cooking.
    "We're having some leftovers for supper," she said. "If you don't mind eating in the kitchen . . ."
    I certainly didn't. I followed her and took the place she